


no better you than the you that you are

by jumbled_sentiment



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Adorable Connor, Connor Deserves Happiness, Fluff, M/M, Married Oliver Hampton/Connor Walsh, POV Connor Walsh, Protective Oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:16:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumbled_sentiment/pseuds/jumbled_sentiment
Summary: “You wanna tell me about it?”Connor’s reply was both genuine and slightly muffled. “Tell you about what?”Oliver placed his book on the cabinet and shuffled down the mattress so he was lying level with his partner. “What your mom said earlier.”I was the mom who let her teenage son have sex with a twenty-three-year-old man in her home.“It just sounded...” He trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say.





	no better you than the you that you are

**Author's Note:**

> I heard the line from Connor’s mum in 5x13 and I couldn’t move on from it. This was swimming around my brain so, I wrote it and now it’s swimming around the internet.
> 
> Also, the title is a lyric from Alessia Cara – Scars To Your Beautiful

Routine. It was something Connor Walsh had never believed himself to need and always known with certainty that he did not want. Routine had always been, in his eyes, a deprivation of liberty. A symptom of boredom or, depending on your perspective, that of which boredom was a symptom of. Routine was something to be feared, something to be avoided. The metaphorical dead-weight around the neck of the old, the young and the committed. 

Then Connor Walsh met Oliver Hampton. 

Against the backcloth of his life with Oliver, routine was neither a deprivation nor a dead-weight. Astonishingly, it had been quite the opposite. Relationships had, from the outside looking in, always seemed to be a predictable, suffocating and exceedingly tedious practice. In reality, what Connor had found was a locus, reliably warm and still and safe. At some point in between who he was then and who he is now, he had found comfort in consistency. And with this discovery came a home, a life and a future. 

He had a husband. He _was_ a husband. That fact alone was wonderful, frightening and utterly miraculous. 

It was late evening when Oliver asked the question. The pair were getting ready for bed, their well-established routine in full swing. Oliver preferred to delay showering until the morning. For him, it was the first step towards wakefulness. He would stand under the scalding stream until he was confident that he had pieced enough of himself together to get through the day. Connor however, found the pressure of the water against his skin exceptionally calming. He liked to wash away the noise, let himself be engulfed by heat until there was nothing else. It was grounding; it was a necessary step toward achieving, hopefully dreamless, sleep. While Connor was scrubbing away the day, Oliver would don his pyjamas; sweatpants, a soft cotton shirt and a pair of fluffy, magenta socks adorned with the ears, eyes, nose and whiskers of a kitten much cuter than it had any right to be. Connor had so enjoyed tormenting Oliver when he first saw him model the monstrosities, but his mirth was short lived. After Oliver badgered him into trying them for himself, Connor had been forced to admit that they were unfortunately, the most ridiculously comfortable items he had ever worn. 

Now, Connor’s movements were familiar ones. He pulled himself from under the warm spray and traipsed into their bedroom, finding Oliver the way that he was accustomed to; enveloped in a bundle of blankets with his limbs only allowing him enough movement to reach out and turn the page of the novel he was currently absorbed in. Connor slid in between the covers and burrowed under his pillow chipmunk style, ready for nothing more than falling into a deeply deserved slumber. 

It was then that Oliver asked his question. 

“You wanna tell me about it?” 

Connor’s reply was both genuine and slightly muffled. “Tell you about what?” 

Oliver placed his book on the cabinet and shuffled down the bed so he was lying level with his partner. “What your mom said earlier.” 

_I was the mom who let her teenage son have sex with a twenty-three-year-old man in her home._

“It just sounded...” he trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say. 

Connor pulled his head out from under the pillow and looked up at Oliver, a slight accusation in his gaze. “What?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Don’t pretend you’re pissed. If you don’t want to talk about it, just say.” 

Connor opened his mouth before closing it again. He looked at Oliver for a long moment before slumping down onto the pillow and letting out huff of air and exasperation. 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

Oliver tutted and gently nudged the heap of duvet that contained his husband. It was, Connor knew, a silent rebuke. A reminder that he was a better man than he believed. It meant 'yes you do' and 'I love you.'

Connor twisted and maneuvered himself until he was pressed flush against Oliver, ensconced in his warmth. Oliver responded in kind, inching even closer and circling his arm around the body now affixed to his own. 

Connor signed. “I don’t really feel like a trip down memory lane tonight but, if I do, I know where to find you.” 

Oliver grinned. “Mhmm, in bed with you, hopefully,” emphasising the last word with a tickle of his finger against an exposed strip of skin. Connor hissed and jolted away from Oliver’s touch, scurrying away a safe distance and curling into himself protectively. Oliver didn’t try to hide his snickering, but pressed a small kiss against the base of his neck in apology. “Precious,” he murmured. 

“Evil,” Connor replied, still huddled away from Oliver. 

“Yes, but you love me, so what does that say about you?” 

Connor hummed in false consideration. After a pause, he shifted backwards until, once again, their bodies were crowded against each other. His response came softly, mumbled in hushed tones soon to be claimed by unconsciousness. 

“Who cares?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Much appreciated. <3


End file.
